


Midnight

by NorroenDyrd



Series: The Shyest Vampire [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Coming of Age, Companions Questline, F/M, Slow Burn, Twilight References, Whiterun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 06:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15576333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: A hopeful young girl leaves her mother and stepfather to live with her not too competent father that works in law enforcement, and ends up falling in love with a vampire. Sounds rather familiar, doesn't it? Except the girl is plucky and excited about swordsmanship, the father is a commander of the guard in Whiterun, and the vampire is so shy he does not dare show himself for half the story.(This is a very old abandoned WIP I posted per request; I am not really motivated to pick it up, but perhaps it could merit reading in its own right).





	1. Mock Cover




	2. Chapter 2

With an incessant clicking noise, the scissors danced next to the small of my neck, the small, fuzzy chunks of hair tickling my skin before they were swiped off to the floor. The monotony of the metallic melody bored me to no end (small wonder, really: even describing it now makes me want to yawn... the monotony of the metallic melody... ugh, what a phrase!), and it took me great effort to remain sitting still and to keep my back as rigidly upright as possible. But, at long last, my patience was rewarded: letting out a small grunt of contentment, Delacourt drew the scissors away, carefully brushed the remaining hair tufts from my shoulders, and handed me a small mirror.  
  
Barely able to contain my eagerness, I made a small leap on my stool, which (as he did not fail to remark in mock anger) almost cost Delacourt an eye, since I shoved my elbow right at the hand he was holding the scissors with. My ears instantly flared up with a mixture of worry and embarrassment, and I gave my Breton friend a sideways glance to see if he was all right. After my brief inspection revealed that both his eyes were intact, as was his carefully trimmed blonde moustache and the rest of his good old genial self, I, once again, reverted to my bubbly, excited state, and swivelled my head to devote all my attention to the mirror.  
  
The face that looked back at me from the depths of the glass was so absolutely wonderful that I could not hold back a gleeful squeak. With shorter hair, I seemed so much more adult; the outlines of my face showed better, too. I tilted my head to get a better look at my chin, a rich blush spreading over my reflection's cheeks as I assessed just how strong my jaw was.   
  
Perhaps, for some other young woman my age, those bold outlines would have appeared unattractive: too rough, too 'mannish', too unlike what might have been expected of a 'refined Imperial lady'. But for me, what I saw in the mirror was the image of perfection... If I do say so myself. Perhaps it makes me sound arrogant, but it is the truth. Yes, oh gods, yes, it is! When I gazed into the gleaming eyes of my reflection, I saw a young warrior-to-be, and nothing could have made me happier.   
  
Suddenly, the joyful, flushed, glowing face in the mirror was joined by another - moustached and very satisfied with a job well done.  
  
'I left some longer strands on the sides of your face,' Delacourt explained, his reflection flashing a gold tooth at me - a worthy replacement of the one he lost in a brawl long ago; in his stories, he was fond of calling that tooth 'the hapless victim of a flighty Nord that saw himself in Ragnar the Red'.  
  
'You know, so you can braid them... A la Nord. What say you?'  
  
'Oh, Dell-Dell, this is perfect!' I sang, reaching up to plant a kiss on his cheek.  
  
Dell-Dell was a nickname I had given him as a child, unable to pronounce his complex Breton name. Though I suppose I might have as well called him Father.  
  
Delacourt had originally been a wandering bard. One gloomy rainy day (which are only too common in Falkreath Hold), his roaming across Skyrim had led him into my mother's inn. Only instead of entertaining the locals for just one night, as one might have expected from him, he had ended up staying for good. And the reason for that had been, of course, my mother - the Precious Publican, as he liked to call her, among many other, even more high-strung endearments.  
  
I had been a fairly young child back then, but I could still vividly remember the noises that were coming from behind my mother's door that night, and on several more nights afterwards. In the mornings, she had looked so dazed and dishevelled that I had even drawn away from her once or twice, crying - but the blonde stranger with the soothing voice had been able to calm me down, and had even made me laugh louder than my mother ever could. I had taken such a great liking to my mother's visitor that she (as she would later admit to me, blushing over the rim of a wine glass during the New Life's Festival) had shed all the initial guilt she may have had, and kept going on with the noises until everyone was used to them.  
  
Of course, since Falkreath is a town where almost everything revolves around its cemetery, and any affairs of the living draw an unabashed, sometimes intrusive interest, some of the local gossips had waggled their tongues about 'ole Valga and that Breton feller' - not the least bit because Delacourt was considerably younger than her. But, what with his polished manners and candid affection towards my mother and me, it had not taken him too long to charm everyone, even the former Jarl and the current Jarl's uncle, the grouchy old Dengeir, who had been initially convinced that Delacourt was an Imperial spy... Because of course he had to be! In that old man's book, everyone was an Imperial spy, even the six-year-old me. 'What was that you just said to your dolls, young Ria?' he would croak, looming over my shoulder as I was playing in the street and he was out 'patrolling' them. 'Very suspicious!'.  
  
But I digress. Such a lovely, smart word, isn't it? Digress!.. Delacourt taught me that, just like all the other impressive words. Oscillating. Irrevocable. Chagrin. And so much more!  
  
He had taken great pleasure in home-schooling me when I was a girl, and thanks to him, the many typical Falkreath rainy days had never gone to waste. Nestled side by side in the inn's back room, we had worked our way through countless story books, of which my favourites had always been the ones that dealt with Nordic lore. The lays of great kings and warriors, especially. Even as an adult (because now I definitely was one!) I could still recite portions of the Songs of the Return from memory, and when I had gotten myself a pet luna moth (well, pet as in he had flown into my window one night and hanged around the inn for a couple of weeks, while my mother scoffed at me for leaving pastry crumbs everywhere for him to eat), I had called him Ysgramor, because his fuzzy antennae had reminded me of the legendary leader's statue, which was featured in an illustration in one of my trusty old dog-eared tomes.  
  
And today - oh, today was the day when I would come this much closer to being a part of Ysgramor's living saga! The day when I would set out to contribute to his legacy! Oh, I could hardly wait!  
  
'Yes, yes, this is perfect!' I repeated, springing up to my feet and spinning around the room.  
  
'What is perfect, dear?' my mother joined in on the conversation, appearing suddenly in the doorway with a dirty washcloth in her hands.  
  
This cloth, soggy with the soapy water my mother must have soaked it in, plopped down to the floor when she saw what had happened to my head.  
  
'Ria!' she exclaimed, with a broad gesture of bewilderment. 'Why in the Eight's name have you cut your hair?! Mara's mercy, you look like some sort of Nord street urchin!'.  
  
Delacourt and I gave each other a long look. We could not possibly tell her the real reason why I had decided to part with my girlish locks. We could not tell her that, as an aspiring warrior, I had to be practical, not letting my hair get in the way while fighting. We could not tell her!  
  
When, my head brimming over with Nord sagas, I had giddily announced to Delacourt that, when I came of age, I would make the journey to Whiterun in an attempt to join the fabled Companions of Jorrvaskr, proud scions of Ysgramor, he had been fully supportive of me, even sharing some basic sword tricks that he had picked up on his travels to fend off highwaymen and overly hungry critters. But unlike him, my mother would never have approved, and even back then, in my heady teenage excitement, I had known better than to reveal my plans to her.  
  
For as it happened, my mother had travelled all the way into the middle of nowhere, and opened an inn in a sleepy town where the dead and buried outnumbered the living, was to escape the constant fighting that was tearing up our ancestral homeland, Cyrodiil - and now, judging from the rumours that reached us in Falkreath, the province of Skyrim as well. She would repeatedly tell anyone and everyone who would listen that she was tired of seeing elves kill humans, and humans kill other humans, and that she wanted to get away from it all.   
  
As far as I could gather, that had also been the reason she broke up with my birth father, a man named Caius: he had decided to become a sellsword, 'earn some money by slicing up people', as he had apparently put it. My mother had argued with him about it... badly. And then, walked off, the baby me in hand, to seek a more peaceful household. Of course, Falkreath was not an ideal choice, because it owed its enormous cemetery to the countless bloody battles that had taken place nearby in the ages long past - but at least, the living warriors did not bother the locals too much these days, and that was all my mother could ask for.  
  
Thus, if I ever brought up my wish to join the Companions, she would have assumed that it was absolutely the same thing as being a mercenary. Naturally, I myself realized - and Delacourt agreed with me - that 'slicing up people' was nothing like honouring the deeds described in epic Nordic sagas... But mothers can be the most insensible of creatures sometimes, can they not?  
  
Wholly prepared for scathing disapproval, Delacourt and I had taken to devising various schemes to smuggle me from Falkreath to Whiterun soon after my latest birthday, putting our heads together like whispering conspirators every time my mother was out of earshot. Most of the time, our stratagems (which included, for instance, wrapping me into a carpet and sending me off with a Khajiit caravan) had ended up discarded - but thankfully, help had arrived from a most unexpected source: my birth father.  
  
He had written my mother a couple of times, and after lots of searching far and wide across the province (and apparently losing all their clothing in run-ins with bandits and wildlife), his couriers had finally ended up tracking her down at our little inn not too long before the day I am describing.  
  
In his letters, Caius outlined a rather long and tedious narrative... no, wait; I probably should not use what Delacourt would call 'judgemental language'. The man did father me, after all. And if he and my mother had had a falling out over his wish to be a sellsword, perhaps we would have a lot of things in common... Or so I thought back then.  
  
Yes, let us better make it just a 'long narrative': of how he had gone from being a blade for hire to the more respectable duties of a guardsman, and had eventually been promoted to Guard Commander of Whiterun - a post to which he himself referred to with an old Cyrodiilic expression, 'sine cure', meaning basically that all he had to do was walk around and look important.  
  
He even dropped a hint here and there that he would have loved my mother and me to pay him a visit, and see how he had settled down. It would have been so marvelous, he told us, if we let go of the past and tried to make a fresh start, ad ovo (another old Cyrodiilic expression... Those seemed to be quite a pet word choice for Caius).  
  
Of course, my mother had brooded over those letters for quite a while, obviously not wanting to leave behind either her inn, or Delacourt - but at the same time (as far as I could tell from her mutterings), rather curious about how Caius had been doing without her. And that was where I had come in; that was what had led up to that fateful day, and to my preparations for the life of a warrior.  
  
'Mother,' I had told her, coming up to her as she slouched over the inn's counter with Caius' letter in hand - and making use of my best 'puppy eyes'.  
  
'Let me travel to Whiterun! I will just hop onto a carriage, get there, and check what Cai... Father has been up to! I promise I won't get tangled up in anything dangerous!'  
  
Of course, I had been... slightly bending the truth, and omitting the fact that, after exchanging a couple of greetings with my birth father, I intended to make a beeline for Jorrvaskr. But thanks to my superb bardic skills of persuasion (as I am certain Delacourt would have called them), my mother had ended up agreeing to let me go.  
  
'Just for a little while; 'Just to let the child meet with her father... What harm could there be in that, right darling?' (She had addressed that last part to Delacourt, who had nodded enthusiastically, while giving me a silent but very energetic thumbs-up).   
  
And so, here we were. Me, with my hair freshly cut; and my mother, with an utterly stunned look on her face.  
  
'I don't understand,' she persisted, following Delacourt with her gaze as he danced across the floor to fetch a broom, and then began sweeping up my shorn-off hair, whistling to himself.  
  
'The carriage ought to be arriving at any moment; Ria is only half-packed - and you have suddenly decided to get rid of half her hair for some reason? Is there something you two are not telling me? I certainly have a feeling that there is! You are up to something! Snooping around, talking in hushed whispers, suddenly straightening up when I enter the room...'  
  
'Daaarling!' Delacourt exclaimed, spreading out his arms in a broad gesture. 'You are making too much of a fuss! Quite understandable, of course, since litte...' (He caught my eye at this point, and hastened to correct himself).   
  
'Since Ria is about to leave home. But I assure you: there is no nefarious plotting going on behind your back! Hair is just hair! Ria simply asked me to cut it because...'  
  
I should have probably let him finish: his training as a storyteller would have helped him provide a plausible explanation for our impromptu barber shop. But I decided to cut in; a stifling flush crawling up my neck, I blurted out,  
  
'Your-hair-is-long-and-I-kinda-look-like-you-and-seeing-me-with-hair-like-yours-could-upset-Caius!'  
  
I realized the moment I opened my mouth what utter drivel I was spouting. But I had gotten far too agitated to think straight, the moment my mother mentioned packing. For my belongings, just like my hair, could have betrayed my true intentions.  
  
Soon after my mother gave me permission to travel to Whiterun, I had taken all my allowance money to Valdr, the local hunter, and had bought as many leather scarps as he could craft from the bear pelt he had recently brought from the woods. I intended to use those bits and pieces to stitch myself some armour once I got to Whiterun: because I obviously had none of my own, and any septims my mother would give me for the journey would not have been enough to buy a ready-made  cuirass from hide or steel. Besides, what better way to impress the Companions that to demonstrate that I could craft my own armour?.. Granted, I did not exactly know how to go about this... crafting... thing - but that could be easily remedied!  
  
These slivers of leather were now wrapped into the clothes I had decided to take with myself, and stuffed into my backpack, which I had left behind, tossed carelessly onto my bed, when Delacourt called out to me, reminding me that I had wanted to have my hair cut. I only realized just now that I had not properly finished hiding the leather strips. What if my mother suddenly got it into her head that she needed to help me pack, and discovered my little stash?!  
  
My eyes bulging at the sheer possibility of that happening, I got the ludicrous excuse out of my system, and bolted towards my bedroom, feeling the back of my head tingle with mother and Delacourt's blank stares. I thought I could hear them talking to each other as I rushed off: she was questioning my 'odd behaviour' once again, and he was insisting  that it was all in her head and that I was going to be fine, just fine. For a moment, I even felt slightly guilty over going to such elaborate lengths just to keep my mother in the dark... Maybe she was even right, at least in part, to worry so much about every little thing. Or maybe not. She was my mother, after all; and there are things that mothers would never understand.  
  
As soon as I pushed past the bedroom door, I plopped onto my bed and grabbed hold of my discarded backpack, checking if anything had been disturbed. The secret leather stash appeared to be in order; every strap, big and small, was still concealed underneath pocket flaps, among crumpled dresses, or in between pairs of unmentionables. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, I hugged the backpack close to my chest and whispered, my eyes half-shut,  
  
'Jorrvaskr, here I come!'


	3. Chapter 3

When I clambered onto my broad wooden seat in the carriage, I hugged my backpack in precisely the same way as I had done in my room. My fingertips were clasped tightly together, and there was what felt like the broadest, dopeyest grin imaginable plastered across my face. Somewhere far in the background, my mother was waving goodbye and giving some doubtlessly very wise parental guidance (I could hardly register snatches of 'Don't forget to wash your face in the morning!' and 'Don't use a knife as a toothpick!'). Delacourt was by her side as well, very visibly happy and proud to see me head off to live my dream; but I did pay too much attention to him either, and barely acknowledged his nods of encouragement and joyous waving. All of my mind was completely absorbed by the sight of the road ahead - the road which, as I knew for certain, would lead me towards glorious adventures beyond count.  
  
This was it - my new life was beginning! I was going to be a Companion! Oh, and meet my birth father, of course. All things considered, he would probably be more supportive of me than my mother - maybe he could even help me achieve what I was aspiring to!   
  
To further my tale along, all the goodbyes were finally said, and with the elated, daydreaming me on board, the carriage set off, making a prolonged, drowsy creak, of the kind that a bed makes when you get out of it in the morning. The tall, slightly swaying pines began to gently float by in the greyish mist, falling behind one by one as the wooden wheels tumbled down the bumpy, unevenly paved road, and  the hooves of the stout, wooly-legged horse beat a soothing melody against the ground.   
  
I glanced from side to side now and again, still clinging on to my backpack, and took long breaths of the forest air. If there was one good thing about Falkreath's rainy weather, it was that fresh, watery smell that was left behind after every downpour. I savoured this smell with every tiniest inch of my lungs (I wonder if Delacourt would have approved of such a turn of phrase). And the sounds I made while at it must have been incredibly loud, for the driver - a burly, bald man with a small beard - shot a look at me over his shoulder and said with a chuckle,  
  
'Wait till we arrive to Whiterun Hold! The air round the Honnigbrew meadery is dense and sweet like honey this time of year! That fella from the Companions always says...'  
  
The word 'Companions' made me spring into a rigidly upright pose; I suspect that I might have looked a little bit like a puppy that hears its owner's command, with my ears pricked up and my eyes rounded and full of sparkles.  
  
'The Companions?' I asked breathlessly, finally letting go of my backpack and setting it aside to shift closer to the driver.  
  
'You actually know the Companions? You have actually talked - ?'  
  
Here, my voice abruptly changed its pitch, turning into a rather undignified squeal.  
The man jerked one shoulder to express something... vaguely uncertain, and then turned back to his horse.  
  
'It was just one of them. Nord fellow like me, ruddy, hairy, and all'.  
  
'Oh gods!' I clasped my hands together on my chest, excitedly sorting through the names of the great heroes I had read about, or heard of from Delacourt. 'Oh! Was it Kodlak Whitemane? The mighty Harbinger himself? The one famous for fighting off a hundred and one Orc berserkers? It was such an awe-inspiring, bloody battle!'  
  
After this high-strung introduction, I half-closed my eyes, recreating one of my absolutely favourite mental images. I think I may have even swayed slightly from side to side, in tune with my own narrative.  
  
'The Orcs approached, snarling and frothing at the mouth, the berserker rage firing up in their blood, about to heat it to boiling point at any moment... But Kodlak and his steadfast Shield Brother, Skjor, stood firm, with their weapons ready, and -'  
  
'Hold up, child!' the driver cut me short, raising one hand into the air and pulling at the reins with the other.  
  
I frowned, not at all appreciating being called 'child' - and also wondering to myself if the man was stopping me because I had gone wrong with my epic tale somewhere... Perhaps that bit about heated blood was a bit of an overkill. Was it even grammatically possible to use the words 'heat' and 'blood' next to each other? Or did it make blood sound like some kind of soup? Heated berserker Orc blood soup - blech. What a revolting image! Nobody in their right mind would want to eat  _that_ for dinner!   But again, as Delacourt taught me to say - I digress.  
  
'What is it?' I asked, rather sulkily.  
  
'Thought I heard a rustle in the thicket somewhere,' the driver explained, the dome of his bald head beginning to glisten with sweat. 'There are lots of wild beasts in these parts, so...'  
  
He never got to finish his sentence. Not that there was any particular need for that, anyway. For at that very moment, the horse bolted forward with a shrill, terrified neigh, making the carriage almost soar up to the sky. This tremendous jolt, which tossed my backpack onto the carriage's floor and rammed me hard into the back of my seat, was followed by a cacophony of rustling and crackling in the forest undergrowth - and presently, a blurred dark shape emerged from the mist. When its outlines grew clearer, it became apparent that we were facing a huge brown bear - and by the gods, at that time, it was the most feral, the most menacing creature I had ever come across.  
  
For a short while, I gaped at the forest beast before me, all my visions of heroics suddenly dispelled. Dreaming about vanquishing fell beasts was one thing, but seeing one before you, with its huffing nostrils, its dripping maw, its bared massive yellow fangs, and long curving claws, ready to strike down anything and anyone in its path... Well, to say it was overwhelming would be not to say anything.  
  
As I stared at the heaving fur-covered bulk before me, my stomach contracted into a tense, throbbing knot, and all the grizzly tales I had heard from Valdr and his fellow trackers flashed rapidly through my stupefied mind. Bears were docile, if grumpy creatures, the friendly hunters had explained to me, while I was tailing them about in hopes that learning more about the ways of the wilderness would turn me into worthy Companion material. Bears generally minded their own business and ignore you unless you stuck an arrow into their fur, or stood between them and their young, or rudely interrupted their hunt. But sometimes (here, Valdr would round up his eyes and waggle his fingers dramatically, while his friend Ari would roll up her gaze to the ceiling in exasperation) - sometimes, a bear would become infected with Bonebreak Fever, a nasty, debilitating malady that completely lived up to its name. Drawn into a mad, blind rage by the constant pain ravaging their bodies, the beasts would lose every last shred of their natural caution and stumble about through the wilds, lunging at anything that moved. And then, woeful was the fate of the traveller that crossed paths with such a bear: he or she would ultimately face one of two fates - either being shredded like a chew toy, or escaping with the disease festering in the caked red traces left by the infected creature's claws. And this, apparently, was what lay in store for us.  
  
It has taken me quite a great deal of time and space to retell the accounts of the bears touched by Bonebreak; but in reality, all these thoughts flicked through my mind at a tremendous speed, leaving behind a kind of bee-like buzz that made my temples throb. In the meanwhile, my body remained frozen up, and my glassy gaze was still chained to the bear, which kept advancing, staggering slightly as it pushed itself to its hind legs and snarling so hard that it exposed the black, glistening inner side of its lips.  
  
The next instant, the beast flashed its slanting, bloodshot eyes and, with a loud grunt, aimed a heavy blow at the poor horse. Thankfully, the fearsome claws did not meet their target: the horse dodged the bear's strike, letting out a shrill neigh and pulling the carriage behind it, making it keel dangerously to the side. Groping frantically for my backpack (as though I was a mother trying to rescue her precious baby), I shut my eyes tightly, my heart plummeting, and prepared to be hurtled to the ground and trampled up by the two struggling animals.   
  
The trampling never happened, though: just as the horse darted to the side again and I was tossed somewhere into nothingness, backpack and all, someone caught my hand and pulled me away from the chaos, helping me find my footing. For an insane fraction of a moment, I caught myself thinking that a stranger had joined us on the road: a hero like those from Delacourt's most heartthrob-inducing tales had rushed to my aid, swooping me up into his arms before the foul bear could get to me... Perhaps it was even one of the Companions, traversing the roads of Skyrim in search of hapless peasants to rescue...   
  
Well then, in that case I had to prove to him that I was not a hapless peasant; that, instead of a random damsel in distress, he had crossed paths with a fierce female warrior, perfectly capable of standing up for herself! But, at the same time, I also had to show that I was flattered by his swooping, and...  
  
'Here, take this!'  
  
The voice, hoarse and urgent and definitely belonging to the carriage driver, made me yank my head out if the clouds. Blinking my way back to reality, I discovered that there were no heroic strangers to be found anywhere around me, and that the strong arms that had caught me were attached to the familiar stocky frame of the boring bald man that had been hired to take me to Whiterun, and had nothing to do with the Companions.  
  
Breathing heavily in agitation, the driver thrust something into my arms, making me stagger and loosen the grip on my backpack. The something turned out to be a small hunting bow and a quiver with no more than half a dozen arrows.  
  
'Kept this in the chest under my seat,' the driver panted in explanation, while reaching for the broad iron axe strapped to his belt.  
  
'Go on then! Defend yourself! We've got to deal with that thing before it slaughters you, me, and the horse!'  
  
With that, he ran off, bellowing a battle cry at the top of his lungs (If I remember correctly, it was 'Skyrim belongs to the Nords!', of all things).  
  
And as for me - well, I was left to my own devices, while not a dozen paces away, a rabid bear was trying very hard to wreck the carriage and rip off the heads of the poor horse and driver. My precious backpack was lying slumped against my leg, and in my hands, I held a weapon that I barely knew how to use (most of my marksmanship skills amounted to fawning over tales of legendary archers and their logic-defying finesse, plus, again, following Valdr and Ari and fiddling with their weapons when they let me). But I had to make do with what I had - and by Ysgramor, I told myself, I was going to do precisely that! This bear attack was my trial, my initiation into the wondrous world of warriors, and nothing would get in my way and prevent me from passing it! Nothing at all - and certainly not some stupid fleabitten bear!  
  
Biting in my lips in concentration, I readied the bow and notched the arrow onto the string, drawing it as far back as I could and trying to ignore the pain as the tightly twisted cord sliced at my bare fingers. It dug so deep into my flesh that I could feel something warm and wet trickle down across my palm: my own blood, obviously; what else could it be? The thought sent an uncomfortable shiver down my spine; but I was quick to remind myself that would make a pretty pathetic Companion if I was afraid of getting myself a little bloody - and so, I steadied my breath as best I could, focused my vision on the bear (which was now trying to get to the axe-wielding carriage driver)... And let go of the string.  
  
Knocking me back a few paces (so that I almost tripped over the longsuffering backpack), the arrow flew forth, and struck the bear in it front paw just as the beast was about to rip off half of the carriage driver's face. This gave the creature some pause; it turned towards me, with a tremendous strained wheeze, as though there was a whole heap of large stones lodged in its chest and grinding against each other. No longer allowing myself to waste a single precious moment on more gaping, I whipped out another arrow. This time, it was a little easier for the string to rest in the bloodied groove in my flesh, and I took aim with more reassurance. At this rate, I would soon be felling a hundred and one Orc berserkers!  
  
My second shot reached a little higher, and with a soft squelch, the arrowhead sank into the fur right over the bear's shoulder. Roaring in pain, the beast slammed at the ground with its two front paws, returning to its natural all-fours stance. A split second after it did so, the carriage driver managed to land a blow with his axe, hacking deep into the bear's leg. The battle was heating up! Feeling the dreamy smile return to my face, I took another draught of the refreshing air, and unleashed my third arrow, which grazed the bear's ear. Then, came the fourth shot: into the paw again, for the bear had switched its full attention to the driver, and managed to leave three jagged scarlet scratches across his bald head. And finally, the fifth: this shot seemed to have gotten skewed off-course at first, and I even swatted myself on the cheek in frustration, watching my arrow draw a steep curve through the air and land somewhere beyond the horizon... But then, miraculously, it turned out that I had not missed, after all.   
  
Forgetting all about the two humans that were slashing at it and turning it into an arrowed pin cushion, the bear suddenly took to swaying from side to side, in an almost comical impression of a dizzy drunk. Then, it opened its mouth, blood streaming down between its fangs, and dropped thunderously to the ground.  
  
'I... I think it's dead...' the driver said, leaning over the beast and wiping the blood and sweat off his forehead. 'You - you killed it!'  
  
The triumph of my first victory over the wilds would not get  processed until a certain while later; right now, the only thought my mind was capable of holding was that my brother-in-arms (to use a lofty term Delacourt had taught me) had been marked by the bear's claws. The tales of Bonebreak Fever resuming their buzz inside my skull, I raced up to the driver and asked, somewhat squeakily,  
  
'Are you all right? How are you feeling? Are your bones beginning to break?'  
  
The driver glanced up at me, fingering the scratches on his hairless scalp, and said, dismissively but not unkindly,  
  
'Don't you fret over me, lass! I'll go see a healer at that Temple of Kyne after I drop you off. It's my horse we need to worry about! If anything happened to him, we'll have to haul the carriage to Whiterun on our shoulders!'  
  
My heart pace quickened  anxiously at those words, as it dawned on me that after the first few moments of our fight with the bear, the two of us had completely lost track of the horse. I was not even certain if the good beast had managed to escape unscathed before we armed ourselves. What if he was lying further down the road, bleeding to death among the carriage's wreckage? What if the bear had infected him, and he was about to turn rabid and stomp over us like bugs? What if the noise of the battle had proven too much for him, and he had run off, never to be found again?  
  
As it turned out, I needn't have concerned myself with all those questions. After a very brief search, the driver and I discovered our wooly-legged friend grazing peacefully at a respectful distance from our little battle field, still tethered to the carriage and appearing completely unharmed.  
  
When his owner let out a loud cry of relief and started hugging and petting the beast's thick, strong neck, the horse seemed utterly unimpressed. He lifted his head lazily and slanted a mildly baffled eye at the excited human that was prancing all around him. For a moment, it seemed to me that the horse's gaze was dimmed over by a greenish, faintly glowing film, and that the same shade of green was outlining his sturdy body, as if he was standing over a very weak light source. I blinked in confusion - and the lighting effect was gone: now there was no green light to be seen whatsoever, and the horse's eyes and coat had returned to a perfectly normal shade of brown. With a small shrug, I told myself that it was the persistent Falkreath mist playing tricks on me - and, with the driver's help, clambered back into the carriage (not forgetting to pick up my forlorn backpack, of course).   
  
And that was when, at long last, the full scope of what had happened hit me. I had killed a bear. A bear! Dear gods - I had actually killed a bear! All by myself!.. Well, almost. The driver with his axe had helped, obviously - but it was my shot that had finally put the feral, disease-ridden creature out of its misery! Although... Come to think of it...  
For a moment or two, a small knot of a frown appeared between my eyebrows, as I thought back to the moment the bear fell. There definitely had been an arrow sticking out between its eyes - but it had looked... not quite like the ones the driver had handed to me. It had been... thinner. Lighter. With different feathers adorning it. And it had been covered in gilt, too.  
  
So what if that was so, I instantly scoffed at myself. As if that arrow could have come from anywhere else but my quiver! As if anyone else could have fired that crucial shot! The driver must have just used a lot of different arrows for his emergency stash - and when that stash was put into my hands, I had wielded it to kill! A! Bloody! Bear! That was all that had to matter.  
  
Nodding firmly at my own thoughts, I flexed my shoulders and settled more comfortably into my seat, watching a small group of bats flutter off into the darkening heart of the forest.  
  
I had killed a bear!


	4. Chapter 4

'Well, here we are. Impressive, isn't it?'  
  
The carriage driver had asked the local stable master to take care of his horse while he was seeing the healers at the temple. The big, bearded Nord had readily agreed, squinting in slight alarm at the Redguard-turban-like construst that adorned his kinsman's head. These makeshift bandages had been provided by me... Or rather, my mother back home in Falkreath: she, for some reason, had thought that it would be a brilliant idea for me to take along an entire trove of handkerchiefs on my travels (not that I had particularly minded: all the more packing material to conceal my secret stash of leather scraps).  
  
Beturbaned thusly (my story may not be quite in the same league  with Delacourt's heroic tales of yore, but I shall still keep trying to do my best), the driver had just finished giving the good beast another portion of reassuring pats on the neck, as a sort of a promise that he would not be gone long. And, with the horse and carriage having been seen to, we set out up the broad paved road that wound along the rocky slopes of a tall hill, crossing a couple of sparkling little creeks along the way, and eventually leading up to an unbelievably massive wooden construct. The Whiterun city gate.  
  
My fellow traveller was more than right to call it impressive. It was completely unlike anything I had ever seen before in my life. Falkreath barely had any defenses to speak of - just a rickety old watchtower, which was leisurely patrolled by yawning guards, whose greatest concern was the sighting of some wild dog near the city. But this - this bulk of reinforced wood, with wrought iron hinges as big as my head... It almost gave me vertigo (that's the right word, isn't it?) just to look over the thing top to bottom! And the thought of what this gate might conceal beyond it - oh, it made my head spin with giddy excitement! I could hardly contain myself, and even did a little dance on the spot while the city guardsmen were opening the gates for us. After a few moments - which, in my impatience, seemed to me like an excruciating eternity - the enormous gate swung open, and I caught my first glimpse of the legendary home of the Companions.  
  
It was already dusk, and to ward off the evening gloom that was creeping up on the city, huge braziers had been lit up on either side of the broad cobbled street that spread out before me. The bright golden glow of these crackling fires, combined with the soft glimmer of the houses' windows, created a wondrous, magical feeling, and the flickers of rich, warm colour contrasted with the deep, impossibly clear (at least, in the eyes of someone who was used to the perpetual fog of Falkreath) blue of the sky, painting a precious picture that took my breath away.  
  
The carriage driver seemed to know where we were supposed to be heading, as he gave me a small nudge and pointed somewhere towards the horizon, where, rising tall over the ornately carved wooden roofs of the houses, there stood a mighty tree. Its branches were barren, despite the harvest season being just around the corner - but even so, they remained enchantingly beautiful, for their dark outlines traced an intricate, lace-like pattern against the pale pink and silver faces of the rising moons.  
  
'See that thing over there?' my travelling companion commented, while I hastened to swallow the drool that my mouth had rapidly started to fill up with at the sight of the surrounding splendour. 'That would be the Gildergreen. And where's the Gildergreen, there's the Temple of Kyne... Or Kynareth, as them Imperial types call it -'  
  
He cut himself short and cleared his throat uncomfortably. I tried my beat to ease his anxiety with a genial smile. I had done my homework for Delacourt well enough to know that the Nords had more than enough reasons to dislike my people, especially now - but at the same time, I knew that soon enough, thanks to my epic deeds in the ranks of the Companions, the locals would realize that we Imperials could be so much more than 'sleazy politician milk-drinkers'.  
  
'I know you did not mean it,' I said, in a quiet, polite tone. Then, I paused, suddenly hit by an awkward realization, which also made me clear my throat, with an even louder grating noise than the driver.  
  
Too absorbed by my life-changing journey - from the fateful departure to besting a wild beast in thrilling combat and then entering the city of my dreams for the first time - I had never thought to ask the carriage driver's name. And I was not quite certain if the Companions would approve of this sort of behaviour: after all, I had stood side by side with him while dealing with that bear, and even dressed his wounds... such as they were. This sort of battlefield bonding definitely demanded respect! But I had been too busy gushing over my own amazing skills to think of that! Way to go, I declared sarcastically inside my mind - further proving the stereotype of a disdainful, arrogant Imperial!  
  
Thankfully, if there was some sort of code governing situations like this, the driver promptly saved me from breaking it any further, by finally introducing himself,  
  
'Gunjar. The name is Gunjar, lass'.  
  
I eagerly shook the hand he had extended, and said in return,  
  
'Ria! Let's go get you to that temple, then!'  
  
Walking along the streets of Whiterun was like crossing a heaving, boundless sea of sounds and smells, some of which were completely new to me, while others, though familiar, seemed different somehow, more intense, more... exhilarating! From the hum of voices that filled the market square, to the punctuated melody of a blacksmith's hammer striking against the heated metal; from the tempting lure of roasting meat to the fresh smell of grass that was planted alongside the road; from the mooing and bleating of a herd coming home somewhere in the farmlands beyond the city walls, to the hoarse cries of what sounded like a very agitated street preacher; from the dry, sneeze-inducing cloud of dust that rose around the children that were rushing by one after the other like little whirlwinds, to the poignant whiff of tanned leather; from the jingling of coins and pretty baubles that changed hands at the stall of an old woman in a neat white cap, to slurred snatches of a drunken song coming from the tavern - it was all exciting beyond measure, all worth being soaked up and then savoured, as though the sights of this glorious city were a jar of honey that I was picking clean with a slice of bread. If Delacourt had decided to come along and cut my hair here in Whiterun, even that monotonous clicking of his scissors would have mesmerized me like finest music.  
  
The whirlpool of impressions sucked me in even deeper when Gunjar and I entered the Temple of Kynareth. While the priestess - a stern middle-aged woman in a bright orange robe - was examining the good carriage driver's bald head and weaving the tingling threads of healing magic over his scratches, I stumbled about, my jaw dangling somewhere far below my reach, and marvelled at the beauty of the spacious building. Just like the city outside, the temple captivated me - with everything that I could possibly lay my eyes on. With its tiled floor, which shimmered slightly through the thin layer of (perhaps magic-infused) water; with the twisting, knot-like patterns adorning the thick oaken columns that supported its fall ceiling; and with the soothing blue light that filled it from within.  
  
Once again, I began to neglect my fellow traveller (whom I myself had insisted on accompanying!). He seemed to be talking about something to the priestess: at first, she had tried to refuse to treat him.  
  
'I have injured soldiers coming in from the battlefronts by the hour,' she had groused, strutting back and forth around the temple and going about whatever priestessy business she was up to (apparently, it involved distributing phials with potions among the sickly-looking people that were lying on narrow beds along the temple's walls).  
  
'I don't have time for some random lumberjack that has scratched his head!'  
  
Then, Gunjar had taken to explaining to her that he was not, in fact, a lumberjack, and that he had been scratched by a bear infected with Bonebreak Fever. After that, the priestess had changed her tone, and pulled off the handkerchief turban to examine the claw marks... And then, I completely lost track of their conversation, distracted by the magnificent play of light and shadow in the corner where I stood. Even the other patients of the priestess seemed beautiful to me, their silhouettes outlined in velvety black, soft, pearly grey, and bright blue... Which, in hindsight, does not seem like a very compassionate, or rational, thought to have; but on that day, I was easily fascinated by everything.  
  
My reverie did not last too long, though. I was in the middle of gazing at the slow, entrancing dance of the dust speck in a light beam that travelled down to one of the beds, washing over the face of a woman that lay there, making her lips part in a fluttering smile that inexplicably warmed my heart. And then, the temple door suddenly creaked open and then slammed loudly, making me start and blink rapidly, as though I had just been woken up from deep slumber. The priestess, too, stopped casting her healing spell and stepped away from Gunjar, a deep crease appearing between her eyebrows.  
  
'You again,' she said through her teeth, folding her arms on her chest and looking like she could, at any moment, easily forsake the peaceful teachings of her goddess and switch from the Restoration school of magic to Destruction - just to burn off the face of the man who had just come in.  
  
This stranger, at first glance, did not strike me as a very likeable person. And it was not just his sizeable beer belly, which rippled slightly underneath the yellow guardsman's tunic; or the fact that his hair grew in about the same pattern as patches of mildew and moss on a rock: I certainly knew better than to judge him solely by that, having read more than a fair share stories of heroes with unattractive looks and a heart of a gold. No, it was something about his expression and the way he carried himself... I could not quite put my finger on it, but somehow it did not seem too surprising to me that the priestess was unwelcoming towards her new guests.  
  
This unpleasant first impression only grew stronger when the man began to speak, his eyes darting back and forth around the room, as though he was estimating how much the temple would be worth if auctioned off. And when one of the patients suddenly broke into a dry, quiet, almost sob-like cough, the stranger curled his lips in distaste, as if he had just stepped into something smelly.  
  
'Still no pilgrims, I see?' he remarked, with a disapproving click of his tongue. 'You are beginning to fail at your job, Danica! You know that pilgrims are good for the city's coffers! Unlike these... wretches you have dragged in here'.  
  
'And what's good for the city's coffers is good for your fat old coinpurse,' the priestess concluded his reasoning for him, her voice dripping with so much venom that I shuddered slightly.  
  
Buy even though her tone unsettled me, I still felt more sympathetic towards her than the pot-bellied stranger - because the man did not make any effort to deny what the priestess had just said.  
  
On the contrary, his lips spread out in an... oily sort of smile. Yes, oily would be the right word for it. Or greasy. I had seen this sort of smile in the faces of people who were seated at the dinner table, staring at a plump stuffed rabbit with potatoes and greens... Or in the faces of slightly (or more than slightly) tipsy men who attempted to waggle their eyebrows at my mother, only to get shoved out of the inn by a broom-wielding Delacourt.  
  
In the meanwhile, the owner of that oily smile talked on, with an air of utmost importance about him.  
  
'It is only right for a man who has done so much for this city to have his needs seen to,' he intoned,  'I more than deserve a little quid pro quo... Especially if it involves the various comforts money can buy!'  
  
Danica pursed her lips.  
  
'Well, I can't help you there, Caius,' she said dryly. 'As you can see, my current job is to heal the ailing, not line your pockets with more gold. And we won't be getting more of those coffer-filling pilgrims any time soon, either, as long as the Gildergreen is withered. If you actually cared about this city, you would have dispatched a couple of your useless guards to search for the sapling of the Gildergreen's mother tree!'  
  
At least, I think that this was how the dialogue went. For as soon as that little old Cyrodiilic phrase, 'quid pro quo', crept in, followed by the mention of the name 'Caius', I felt a stifling wave of heat push its way up my throat, my cheeks flushing.  
  
So this - this cocky, self-centered, and apparently pretty callous interloper, who had barged in at the temple to bother the priestess and sneer at her charges because he wanted pilgrims to bring him more gold... Was my father? This was the man who was supposed to take me in, welcome me to the city, perhaps (as I had naïvely thought to myself) even help me get started as one of the Companions? Dear gods, he had turned out to be nothing like the person I had wanted to see!  
  
Even if he was a former mercenary that had earned money 'slicing up people', and I was an aspiring heir of the great Ysgramor (more or less), I had still expected to find a kindred spirit in Caius, someone who would sing praise to me for deciding to live out the dream of being a great warrior. But instead, I could only see a portly, preening rooster, who was interested in coffers and comforts rather than glorious quests; and I was not even certain how to go about introducing myself to him any longer! Did I even have to? Was it even worth it? Why did he even invite me and my mother here - so he could parade around in front of us, chest puffed up?  
  
'Commander Caius! Commander Caius! I was hoping I would find you in here!'  
  
The door of the temple made a huge bang again, making a few of the priestess' patients struggle to lift their heads to see what was going on. Another unexpected visitor had just burst in.  
  
Unlike the perfectly content, puffed-up Caius, who strolled about at a relaxed pace that kind of reminded me of the guards back home (maybe laziness was a common disease in their ranks?), this man, dressed in a lopsided brown tunic, looked like he had run the whole way here to say something urgent. His tanned, weather-worn face was flooded with burning colour, perspiration streaming down his temples, and his mouth was twisted into a wobbly, loopy shape, as he attempted to inhale huge gulps of air and speak at the same time.  
  
'My farm!' he spluttered, staggering forward and attempting to grab Caius by the hand for support (naturally, the other man recoiled in distaste, evading the grasp of the shaking, clammy fingers).  
  
'There's a giant... Trampling up my farm! My ca-cabbages! I tried to get the guards to do something... But they all just ra-ran away! I - I remembered you doing in-inspections of the Temple - and I ran... To you! Please... Can you make them... Go out there and kill the thing?! Lead them... to battle... or something...'  
  
With this desperate, wheezing plea, he finally managed to close his grip round the ornate straps that attached Caius' sheathed sword to his belt. With the man's entire weight pulling them down, the straps ripped in two, and the weapon thunked down the temple's floor.   
  
Caius did not seem to notice this, however, as he was too busy shaking the sweating petitioner off.  
  
'Severio, my good man!' he said loudly, with a little nervous laugh breaking through, as he was backtracking from the hapless farmer. 'I know that you like our little evening card games at the Bannered Mare - which I am only too happy to take part in, as the presence of such an outstanding individual as myself gives moral support to you, and Arcadia, and other Imperials living amongst Nord barbarians...' (I did not even have to turn my head to imagine the way Danica must have glared at the man).  
  
'... But pray do not take advantage of our friendship to make me do the impossible! If my boys choose to run from the giant of yours, they have good reason to, and...'  
  
He blabbered on and on, but I could not bring myself to listen to him any longer. Especially since, during the scuffle with Severio, Caius had inadvertantly kicked the sword even further away from himself - and, sliding across the tiled floor, it had knocked softly against my feet.  
  
Blinking a few times, I slowly leaned down to pick up the sheathed blade, while my heart was fluttering inside my chest like an enormous cloud of butterflies. According to every single legend that I had read, a true warrior would never let his weapon slip away so easily; Caius obviously did not care a whit about his own sword... Perhaps it would fare better if wielded by someone else?  
  
I tentatively closed the fingers of one hand around the sword's hilt, while stroking the leather of the sheath with another. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that I was committing my very first petty crime (if you did not count sneaking into the sweetmeats cupboard to loot some honey but treats). But I quickly dismissed all my doubts.   
  
I was not really stealing the sword, I told myself as I plastered myself against the wall and made my way stealthily towards the door. As far as I could tell, the only person who noticed my sneaky antics was the sickly woman - and my over-the-top Morag-Tong-like moves brought another faltering smile to her lips.  
  
I was not stealing the sword, I repeated, having finally slipped outside. I was borrowing it. From someone who was not even aware of it being gone. And unlike Caius, I was actually going to put that weapon to good use! I was going to get out there, find that farm, and slay the giant! I was going to be the perfect young heroine, wielding my father's blade into battle!  
  
In a manner of speaking.


End file.
